A Joy Above The Rest
by Slayergirl
Summary: A little missing scene. Marianne convalesces at home, with the aid of a friend and some poetry. Unashamed fluff.


**A/N: Somewhere between the book and the 1995 Ang Lee adaptation, this is very much written as an** _ **homage**_ **to the late, great, and much missed and mourned Alan Rickman, who will always be how I see, read, and (especially) hear Colonel Brandon for evermore. May you rest in peace, good sir. The world is a sadder place without you.**

 **S &S**

" _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…"_

Marianne opened her eyes as the mellifluous, dark voice trailed off after only three lines. "I was not asleep, merely enjoying your reading," she hastened to assure the reader, but faltered when she saw the look on his face, so grave in the light of the sun as they sat in the garden at Barton Cottage, as they had done so often of late. "Is something amiss?"

He shook his head, with a slight smile, but there was sadness in his eyes.

She frowned. "I am not sure I wholly believe you," she said.

"It will be your birthday soon, will it not?"

"In another month; who told you that?" she asked, confused by his train of thought.

"Your sister Margaret mentioned it."

She nodded; her sister was noted to be over-zealous in her confidences, but at least letting slip it was soon her birthday had done no harm, and she would mention it no further. "But why did you ask about my birthday?" He looked at her steadily; the colour drained out of her cheeks, as she realised what he had been thinking. "May."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps… perhaps, a different sonnet?"

"Do you have any preference?"

"Not…"

"…One hundred and sixteen; I know, and will not pain you with it." He flipped through the book of sonnets – his own, not the one she had been given once, and had treasured – and hesitated. "I think, perhaps… yes."

Marianne relaxed again, reclining back against the seat, and allowed her eyes to close. It had surprised her how excellent a reader he was; his understanding and timing were perfect, and his voice! It rolled over the words like a thunderstorm in the distance, quiet and dark.

He started reading again, and this time completed the sonnet.

" _As an unperfect actor on the stage,  
Who with his fear is put beside his part,  
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,  
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;  
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say  
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,  
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,  
O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.  
O! let my looks be then the eloquence  
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,  
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,  
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.  
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:  
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit."_

She opened her eyes slowly, taking in his countenance, seeking in it what she hoped to see, but feared might not. "May I read to you?" she asked.

"If you wish," he said, with another of his slight smiles, and handed the book to her.

A few pages later, she found the sonnet she sought, and tried to gather her thoughts. To be sure, it did not express exactly what she wished to say, but she dare not speak it, not yet; but perhaps it would be enough, for the moment, not to destroy this little space they had carved out for themselves? She tried to clear her mind, and read.

" _When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:  
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,  
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,  
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,  
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:  
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,  
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er  
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,  
Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end."_

She did not dare look up at him, and was disappointed when he stood to take his leave with a stiff bow. Had he not understood? Did he not realise how his presence had healed so much, how much a gift his friendship had been, how much she… "Colonel Brandon…!"

He halted; had he not just been dismissed, as only a friend?

"I… perhaps that was an ill choice. It was… it was my second choice, and perhaps I should have read my first."

His voice was as soft as ever. "What was your first choice?"

 _If I have misunderstood, if I am wrong, then I will rue this._ "May I…"

To her relief, he took his seat again. She dared not look at him, and tried to blink away the tears that persisted in plaguing her.

" _Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,  
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,  
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;  
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;  
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,  
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:  
But these particulars are not my measure,  
All these I better in one general best.  
Thy love is better than high birth to me,  
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,  
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;  
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:  
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take  
All this away, and me most wretched make."_

She held the book out to him without looking up, and he took it without comment. The silence stretched on and on. A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Finally, he spoke. "Will you ask your mother if I may have an interview with you in private tomorrow?"

She sobbed, and nodded.

A pocket handkerchief was pressed into her hand, their fingers touching briefly. "I was hoping that would bring you joy, not sorrow," he said wryly.

Dabbing at her wet eyes, she laughed. "Forgive me, I…"

"There is nothing to forgive." He handed her the book again, pointedly open to sonnet one hundred and sixteen. "Read it for _me_ ," he murmured. Then he stood, and bowed. "Until tomorrow, Miss Marianne."

She watched him go, then took up the book, reading that sonnet for the first time since Willoughby's abandonment of her; and, reading it, realised that it was, in every way, Colonel Brandon's perfect response to her fears that he, too, would abandon her.

She smiled contentedly, and closed her eyes.


End file.
